


Coping

by Nibswrites



Category: Oban Star-Racers
Genre: Family Drama, Gen, POV Second Person, Post-Canon, References to Depression, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2018-12-01 13:19:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11487219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nibswrites/pseuds/Nibswrites
Summary: Because the epilogue was unsatisfying and I have a lot of thoughts on what could have happened after Oban other than "we became a family again and it was nice."





	1. Prologue-Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly I have no idea what I'm doing with this but because it looks like a sequel may actually be a reality I feel like I have to get this out sooner rather than later. Two years ago, this started as "the epilogue really brushed over some things and also where was Rick" and turned into 30,000 words of a lot of angst and snarky banter. What I am posting now wasn't even originally what I started with, but an attempt at making a coherent, linear plot line that would be more reader-friendly. I'll try to post regularly for the rest of the summer; I have three chapters including this one that I feel good about, and maybe this will motivate me to edit the rest of it, but I'm really just flying by the seat of my pants right now. I'll just let y'all read and if you have any questions you can shoot me asks either through ao3 or at my tumblr, nightbloggingbyday.tumblr.com

Your return to Earth is a series of meetings with so many government officials that their faces all blend together in your mind, and you are asked to tell them exactly what happened over and over until the words rushing out of your mouth feel like second nature and you aren’t consciously aware of what you’re saying. Finally, you’re allowed to go home, and Don ( _Dad? Do you call him Dad now?_ ) gives you the guest room. You’re asleep before you hit the pillow.

The next month, you float through everyday life. You have your father back; you can be a family again. You go back to school, a new school where you aren’t “the orphan,” or “the delinquent,” because no one knows you. The next month is good, it’s normal. You’re finally living again.

Until month two After Oban. Month two, the nightmares start. You watch buildings and temples crumble around you; large, bird-faced figures loom over you, chanting _it’s your fault, it’s your fault_ ; and you watch, helplessly, repeatedly, as your best friend sacrifices himself for you. You wake up screaming, your father standing over you and shaking your shoulders.

You hope it’s just a one-time thing, but the dream returns the next night, and the night after that. You try to stay awake as long as possible, finally passing out when your body can’t take it, and wake up in a cold sweat, crying and begging for the voices to _shut up already, just shut up!_ Come morning, Don give you weary looks; you know he wants to help but _what can he do_?

Month three, you can’t get out of bed. Don tries to get you to eat, but you won’t. He gets frustrated and storms out a few times, but you can’t even bring yourself to care. You watch his retreating figure with indifference. That’s really how you feel about everything. Indifferent.

Don must contact someone, because you’re called in to talk to some other government person, a psychologist or something. She seems to be familiar with the Race but you don’t recognize her. She talks at you, you see her mouth moving, but you don’t actually hear anything she says. You can’t bring yourself to listen, or even care.

There’s activity at the door, suddenly, and a young man in a fancy government outfit comes in and says something to the woman. She looks frustrated, and you find it in yourself to be slightly interested. The woman looks at you, and says something, and the man nods and walks back to the door, in time to nearly be hit in the face as it swings open and another, very large and thick-eyebrowed person shoulders their way aggressively into the room.

“Mrs. Wilde, please!” another man in uniform pleads. “This is in direct violation of—“

“Forget your policies!” the woman snarls. “Sending children to fight your battles is against policy too, but that didn’t seem to stop you!” She turns to look at you, and her face softens. “How old are you?” she asks.

“Fifteen,” you mumble, and you feel numb because you know exactly who this woman is.

“Fifteen,” she repeats, and her face darkens and she whirls around to face the man she had been arguing with earlier. “Fifteen! A child! Look at her! She’s not even military!”

The woman who had been talking to you stands. “Mrs. Wilde, please, you’re upsetting Ms. Wei. We can talk later.”

You push yourself to your feet and lurch forward unsteadily, and everyone in the room falls silent. You nearly trip over your own feet, but she catches you, and she’s big and strong and warm and you suddenly understand why _he_ is who he is, and you can’t bring yourself to look the mother of your best friend in the eyes as you choke out, “I’m sorry.”

Mrs. Wilde pulls you into a hug and pats the back of your head softly, and you remember a sleepily mumbled _I need a hug_ and you’re crying all over again, because _he_ should be here, not you. You cling to her and sob and become a broken record of apologies, because this woman will never see her son again and it’s all your fault.

“There, there, let it out, it’ll be okay,” she murmurs. She gently pries you away, and looks at the woman who had been trying to talk to you earlier. “Do you have paper?” Mrs. Wilde asks. The woman quickly pulls a page out of her notepad and hands it off. Mrs. Wilde scribbles something onto it and offers it to you. You scrub at your eyes and study the address and phone number. “In case you ever need anything,” Mrs. Wilde places a large hand on your shoulder and offers you a smile before turning her steely gaze back to the other woman. “Don’t think I’m done with you,” she snarls.

Mrs. Wilde leaves, and the government lady lets you go shortly after. You think your dad might try to talk to you during the ride home, but you’re too busy staring at the slip of paper in your hands to listen, afraid that if you blink it’ll disappear.

Things get worse yet. Your grades slip. You lose more sleep and more weight. Your mental health is in shambles, but you refuse to go back to the shrink before, and you can’t see anyone else since the Race is confidential. Month four, you snap and lock yourself in the bathroom. While your father pounds frantically on the door, you hunch over the bathroom sink. Your reflection looks haunted, guilty, and you hate it, you hate _her._ You don’t want to be Eva. Angrily, you find the shears and start to hack your hair off.

You can hear your father outside the door, but you ignore him. It isn’t hard; he’ll tell you that you never listen anyway, so tuning him out isn’t difficult. But not even you can ignore the loud _thud_ against the door. You jump and drop the shears. What the hell does your father think he’s doing? He’s going to get hurt, throwing his weight against the door the way he is. But no, you can hear him arguing with someone, and you frown. No, it _can’t_ be. Hesitantly, you open the door and peer out. Don says something, but you look up, up, _up_ until your eyes find dark sunglasses and darker hair pulled back into a messy pony, and he smirks and says, “Well hey there, Little Mouse.”

You slam the door.


	2. Waking Up

Don and Rick finally manage to coax you out of the bathroom, but you make Rick leave first. Part of you wants to see him again, but under your guilt ( _it's your fault he can't race anymore, it's all your fault_ ) is rage. He  _left_  you. The first person to actually pretend to care about you, and he left, like it was the easiest thing to just walk away. He wasn't even there to greet you when you finally returned. So you feel terrible, yes. But you still don't want to see him. Not now.

"Your hair looks  _terrible_ , young lady," your father chides. You'll admit it looks ridiculous; you weren't really paying attention to what you were cutting, you just did. Now it's a choppy, uneven mess, even more so than it was. The only way you might be able to salvage it is if you shaved it off completely and started new. If only the rest of you was that easy.

" _And_ I'm going to have to replace that door." Don is still griping, but you aren't really listening. Your fit of rage has passed, and now you're back to your old, apathetic self. You sit at the kitchen table and trace the grain with your eyes.

"Why was he here?" you ask.

Your father starts and blinks at you. "Why was who here?"

"Rick."

Don sighs. "Because I was worried, and you listen to him. At least, you used to. I figured if anyone could get through to you, it would be him."

"Why didn't you call him sooner, then?" You feel mild agitation. If your father has been in contact with Rick this whole time, why didn't he come before?

"Things are," your father swallows, "Complicated, between us. It's best that he has his space."

"Whatever," you mumble. You push your chair back and walk towards the stairs.

"We should do something about your hair before you go back to school," your father calls after you.

"Whatever," you repeat, before pulling the door shut with a snap. You fall on your bed and fist your hands in the comforter. A month ago, you think you might cry. But now you just feel hollow.

* * *

You wake with a jolt, in a cold sweat. Another night, another nightmare. You sigh and roll over. You know you won't be able to fall back asleep, not without more shadowy figures haunting you, but you don't want to get up, either.

There's a soft knock at your door, and you pull the blankets over your head with the hope that your dad will peek in, assume you're still asleep, and leave again. You don't want to deal with him.

Instead, the floorboard just inside the doorway creaks (you've learned exactly how to step over it so it doesn't make any sound). From beyond the door, you hear your father mutter, "Just leave her alone, Rick. It's no use."

"The kid chases you half-way across the galaxy, and you're gonna give up on her, just like that?" Rick asks.

"You don't get it," Don sighs, but says nothing else.

"Hey, Miss Wei," there's a hand shaking your shoulder, and you flinch. "Easy," Rick murmurs. "Come on, Little Mouse, it's after noon. Let's get up and get some food."

"M'not hungry," you say.

"I told you," Don grumbles.

"That's because you've been subjected to Don's cooking."

"And your cooking is better?" you roll your eyes, even though you know he can't see you through the blanket.

"Fuck yeah, my cooking is better. Just ask your old man."

Don scoffs, probably at being called "old," but he begrudgingly says, "Yeah, it is."

"Come on, kiddo. Anything you want, I'll make it." You'd almost think racing legend Rick Thunderbolt was begging. But he can't be. He doesn't care. You wonder what your father offered him to do this.

"No."

"Eva," your father starts, but Rick must cut him off.

"If you change your mind, we'll be downstairs," Rick concedes, and you hear him retreat across the room. You wait a few moments after the door shuts to push the sheets back and look around. Sure enough, you're alone. You roll out of bed and shuffle across the room to crack the door open and peer down the hall. Again, no one. They really did leave you. You pull the door back shut, and then you just stare at it. You're used to your father putting up some fuss, either arguing with you a little more, or blowing up at you when you refuse to budge. This is an entirely new experience. You aren't sure what to do with yourself. You suppose this is a victory, but you don't feel anything.

Well, your next step is clear: stay in your room. If this is a game, and Rick is trying to lure you downstairs, you aren't going to give in. Your bed is much nicer anyway, it's warm and safe-ish. You don't need anything downstairs. You have plenty in your room to keep you occupied. You crawl back into bed and pull your blankets around you.

You don't know how much time passes before you hear another knock on your door, and then it opens and Rick asks you if you're awake. You remain silent, hoping he will go away, but instead he says "I've got food here if you're interested. I'll leave it on the bedside table, okay?" And then the room is quiet again, and you smell something that makes your stomach grumble.

"Traitor," you huff. You want to ignore the food, but you can't remember the last time you ate, so you push the blankets back and peer out. It just looks like eggs and toast, but your stomach rumbles and squeezes so you push yourself up and pull the plate to you. You suppose you can pick at it, at least. Or maybe it'll be really gross and you won't be able to eat it anyway.

You don't realize that you've eaten all of it until you go to stab it with your fork again and the plate makes a gross scraping noise. You blink at it in confusion. You didn't think you'd eaten that much; you guess you were pretty hungry.

Later that evening, there's another knock, but this time your father peeks in. "You're up," he says, and there's surprise written on his face that he barely manages to conceal. "Rick is making dinner, if you're interested."

You shrug. You really don't want to go down, but you are curious (anyone can make a scrambled egg, so you wonder what Rick could do with something more complicated). That being said, you really aren't that hungry, and you still don't want to give him the satisfaction. You want to win. And maybe you're the only one playing this childish game, but that just means you especially can't lose.

"Well, you can come down if you change your mind," Don mumbles before closing the door. You lay down and roll over to face the wall. You won't give in this time. Rick can stuff it.

Except in the short time the door was open, the smell of whatever Rick is making managed to make its way into your room, and your stomach lets you know exactly what it thinks of your idea. You growl and pull the blanket up over your head. You will persevere.

You win dinner, but the next morning you make the mistake of creeping downstairs to get some water and run into both Rick and your father in the kitchen. Rick has his hair tied back and is making… something. And it smells absolutely amazing.

"Hey Little Mouse, nice of you to join us," Rick waves over his shoulder. Don glances up from his newspaper and offers you a little smile.

"Unlike you," you blurt, and your father raises the newspaper again.

Rick sighs. "I know, kid, I'm sorry. I should have come with."

"You _left_ ," you hiss and ball your hands into fists. You're back on Alwas, watching him walk away with the most half-assed goodbye he could have given you (at least he _said_  goodbye, unlike a certain man who is currently trying to hide behind newsprint). And you're pissed.

"You didn't need me anymore." He still won't look away from whatever is sizzling in the pan he's watching, and you wish he would.

"What's with the men in my life thinking they know what I need better than I know myself?" you snarl, and oh yeah, Don just flinched and raised the paper a little higher. Good. You're dragging him into this whether he likes it or not.

Rick doesn't say anything, just turns off the stove and finally turns to face you. His sunglasses are still firmly in place, expression unreadable. You wish you knew what he was thinking. "I'm sorry," he says, finally.

You feel something in you snap, and you bring your fist down on the kitchen table, making your father jump nearly a foot out of his chair and slop coffee all over himself. "I am sick of people apologizing to me! It's not going to fix a damn thing! If you were  _really_  sorry,  _you_  wouldn't have left me in Stern," you point at Don, before redirecting your attention to Rick, "And  _you_  wouldn't have left Alwas! Or you would have been there when we returned! But, hey! You weren't the first person to throw me out the first chance they got, and the way things are going, you probably won't be the last!"

"Eva," Don starts, but Rick cuts him off.

"She's right, Don."

"Is that all you have to say?" you take a step closer to him.

Rick just shrugs. "What do you want me to say, kid? We both know sorry won't cut it. What do you want from me?"

You feel yourself deflate. You want him to get angry, and maybe yell back. Don always yells back. Yelling at Rick is like yelling at a brick wall. "Why," you stammer. "Why did you leave?"

You don't think he's going to answer you, but he does eventually say, "I needed time to recover after being told I couldn't race anymore. Maybe that was selfish of me, but," the corner of his mouth lifts, "Didn't think you liked me that much."

It's like being punched in the gut, because that makes sense, but also, Rick left  _because of you_. It's your fault he can't race anymore, and maybe part of him knew that and encouraged him to leave.

You ball your hands in your uneven hair. "My fault," you mutter. "It's my fault."

"What was that?" Rick inches towards you, but you jerk away, bumping into the table. Your breath is starting to come in ragged gasps, and it's been a month at least since your emotions have overcome you like this. You sink to the floor and curl in on yourself.

"My fault," you wheeze, because it's true. Everything is your fault, Rick's accident and Satis and Aikka and Jordan and your dad, you've hurt them all without even trying. You're a monster.

"Molly?" You think Rick is calling your name, but everything sounds and feels like you're under water, you're drowning, you're a monster, a monster, a  _monster_ —

Your vision goes black.


	3. Birds are Assholes

You wake up in your bed, pushing yourself into a seated position and rubbing your eyes. Didn’t you just wake up? And you went downstairs and Rick—

You groan when you remember what happened, the arguing and the breaking down and eventually passing out, you guess. Rick must have carried you up here; you don’t think your father would be able to.

When you walk downstairs, it’s quiet and empty. The clock informs you that Don would have left for work an hour ago. It’s a school day, but you’re going to assume he called you in sick. You can live with that, though you aren’t sure how you’re going to pass this year with all the absences you’ve racked up.

Rick comes later in the day. You’re sitting in the kitchen, staring out the window at a sparrow hopping around the branches of the tree you used to swing from as a kid (you have cloudy memories of your mother pushing you on the wooden plank that still hangs from a low-lying branch), wishing you had wings so you could fly away from everything like the cheery yellow bird that is chirping like everything is hunky-dory.

“Hey, Molly,” Rick calls. “Is this a good time?”

“Birds are assholes,” you say, instead of answering his question. “Look at that feathery bastard. He thinks he’s hot shit because he can fly all over the place and no one can stop him. I hope a cat eats him.”

“Never took you for an ornithologist,” he takes the seat across from you and watches the bird in question. “But I guess you’re right. Birds have it pretty easy.”

“And then they have to go and broadcast it to everyone,” you continue. “Every morning, when the sun goes up, they have to scream, ‘look at me! I’m a stupid bird! And my life is just great, so fuck you!’”

You hear Rick snort. “You’ve got quite the mouth there, kid.”

“So what?” you challenge.

“Bet your father doesn’t appreciate it very much.”

You roll your eyes. “Screw him, if he wanted a proper lady, he should have raised her himself.”

He whistles. “Guess I can’t argue with that logic.”

“What are you doing here?” you finally ask. “How’d you get in here, anyway?”

“I know where Don hides the key. And I could have picked the locks, if I didn’t. I wanted to talk to you,” Rick answers.

“Yeah, we talked, you can go now.”

He sighs. “I know I hurt you, kid. I regret leaving, I really do, but there’s nothing I can do about that except be here for you now.”

You continue to watch the bird as you mull over his words carefully. “At least you came back,” you mutter.

“Setting the bar awful low, don’t you think?”

“No one else has come back, so you being the first has to count for something. But I don’t forgive you for leaving.”

“You don’t have to forgive me if you don’t want to.”

“I guess I should say the same to you.”

“I don’t blame you for my accident.”

You pull your knees to your chest. “You should,” you mumble into them.

He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. “Why are you so intent on blaming yourself for this? Are you the one who sabotaged the star racer?”

“No, but— ”

Rick cuts you off. “Then how is it your fault?”

“You don't understand,” you growl. “You weren't there.”

“I know I wasn't there, we've established that. Why don't you explain it to me?”

You take a deep breath, mentally preparing yourself to respond, when the memory of red eyes and sharp beaks nearly knocks the wind out of you, forcing you to curl in on yourself. You hear Rick ask if you’re okay, and you choke, “He _used_ me.”

“Who used you?”

“Can-” Fear overtakes you as you remember the horror you felt after learning the truth (about your mother, about Rick, about  _yourself_ ), the absolute powerlessness of being under his control, the shock as you realized what Jordan was about to do…

A hand on your shoulder brings you back to reality. Rick’s dumb sunglasses are still covering his eyes, but you can see the concern etched on his face all the same. “You don’t have to tell me if you’re not ready, kid.”

“But he sent someone to sabotage the  _Arrow_  so you would be out of the race, and he killed my mother, all so he could get to  _me_  so he could  _use_  me.” And it almost sounds like pleading, like you’re begging him to understand, and part of you wants him to get angry and walk away again because it’s what you deserve, because you’ll only ever hurt the people you care about and haven’t you done enough damage already?

Rick sighs. “I don’t really understand, but I doubt you’re as guilty as you think you are.”

“I’m not even a good pilot, it was all him,” you whine.

“Sounds to me like someone’s fucking with you,” Rick says. He leans back again. “You’re a kickass pilot, Molly.”

“How do you know?” you challenge.

He gives you a shit-eating grin and responds, “Because you learned from the best.”

You glare at him, waiting for the punch line, but he only raises an eyebrow at you as if daring you to disagree. “You’re serious,” you finally say.

“As a heart attack.”

And you can’t really help it; you giggle. Rick’s expression softens a little, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d almost think it was one of fatherly affection. But that’s absolutely ridiculous. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was kinda short, I promise the next one is longer.   
> Also, can someone let me know if I need to up the rating because of the language? I'm worried T isn't good enough to cover the amount of times the f-bomb gets dropped (whoops)


	4. A Hairy Situation

Rick sticks around for dinner, which surprises your father. So does you sitting at the kitchen table instead of disappearing into your room.

“We should do something about your hair before you return to school,” Don reminds you, between bites of enchilada (Rick cooked, and he was totally right about his superior cooking). “And I bought a new door today, someone will be by tomorrow to put it in.” He shoots Rick a look.

“You can give me as many dirty looks about the damn door as you want, Don,” Rick drawls. “At least you can replace the door, and hair grows back.” Your father’s mouth twists but he stops complaining.

“Maybe I like my hair like this,” you grumble as you push refried beans around your plate (you don’t, but he doesn’t need to know that).

Don huffs. “Well, you may have to go to school like that tomorrow, since most hairdressers will be closed this late and you shouldn’t miss any more school unless you absolutely have to.”

“Will one more day really be the end of the world?” Rick challenges.

“She’s four months into the school year and has already missed several weeks of class; this habit cannot continue.”

“She’s right here,” you snap. Don falls silent.

Rick asks, “What do you want to do, kid?”

You push your chair away from the table and head for the bathroom. After slipping past the sheet Rick helped your dad hang up for some privacy until the door is replaced, you study yourself in the mirror. Rick and Don follow you.

“It looks… bad.” You assess. You weren’t really paying attention, so there are spots where you cut almost completely to the scalp and others that are close to its original length. You are definitely going to need professional help to make this look decent.

“Like miss a day of school so you can get it fixed bad?” Rick presses.

“I can’t go to school like this.”

Don snorts. “Well maybe you should have thought about that before you cut it.”

“At least I didn’t abandon my kid for ten years,” you shoot back, and Rick steps between you.

“So let’s make an appointment for tomorrow,” he looks pointedly at Don before he can say anything else.

Your father sighs. “I’ll have to call into work, but I’m sure they can get on without me.”

“Or I can take her,” Rick suggests.

“You shouldn’t be driving.”

“How do you think I got here?”

Don throws his hands up in exasperation. “Okay, fine, I’ll make an appointment tomorrow afternoon and you can bring her to it.”

He turns on his heel and marches down the stairs. “And make it for someplace normal, not your snooty hairdresser!” Rick calls after him. You hear him grumble from the kitchen but he doesn’t say anything else. You frown at yourself in the mirror and Rick gives you a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

“I’ve seen worse, kid.”

“Really?” you snort.

“No. But I bet somebody has. I’ll swing by in the morning once your dad lets me know what’s up. Get some beauty rest.”

“I’m gonna need it,” you grumble as you follow Rick out of the bathroom.

 

* * *

 

When Rick tosses you a baseball hat the following afternoon you’re a little offended at first. “You’re the one who said it looked bad,” he offers in way of explanation. “If you wanted to try to hide it, you can wear the hat.”

“Is this your hat?” you ask, staring at it skeptically.

“Yeah, is there a problem with that?” he asks.

“It looks like something a dad would wear. Except not my dad, because somehow I ended up with the lamest dad in the galaxy. I mean, like, a normal dad.”

“Are you saying I look like a dad?”

You hesitate. “Kinda?”

Rick grimaces. “I gotta step up my game.”

You follow Rick out to his truck. And yes, it is a truck, with four wheels. He sees you hesitate when you see it and huffs. “Look, if you say anything bad about the truck, you’re walking.”

“I just would have expected you to drive something sporty and fast, not this decrepit rust bucket.”

“Jesse ain’t decrepit, you little thesaurus, she’s retro. And also not rusty.”

You snort in disbelief. “You named it?”

“We name star racers all the time, why can’t I name my truck?”

 You are not convinced, but you climb into the cab and buckle yourself into the passenger seat. The truck roars to life and Rick nods. “Won’t get that out of an electromagnetic engine.”

“It’s your fault Earth is dying.”

“Kid, one man and his truck is not gonna kill the planet, let me live a little.” He pulls out of the driveway and takes off down the street.

Don gave Rick the address to the salon over the phone this morning, and Rick checks what he scribbled down now against the place you’re sitting in front of. “They match,” he confirms, and you swallow hard. “It’s no Great Clips, but at least it’s not your old man’s personal hairdresser.”

“He has one of those?” you ask.

“He did when he was my manager.”

A young, well-dressed woman walks into the building while you collect yourself, so you reach for the ball cap and pull it firmly over your head. Rick doesn’t say anything. You both jump out of the truck and go inside the salon.

You feel sorely out of place, but at least you have Rick, who also looks out of place but stands there like he’s daring someone to call him out on it, and Lord have mercy on the unfortunate soul who tries. Thankfully, you don’t have to wait very long after checking in for someone to call you back. Rick takes a seat in the waiting area and pulls out a home décor magazine as you walk away, and you kind of wish he would come with you if only you didn’t have to be alone with a stranger who is going to be very close to your head with sharp objects.

“Okay, Eva, let’s see what we have here,” the stylist says as you sit down. She’s some overly cheerful middle-aged woman, and if it weren’t for her short, dark hair, she would look too much like Madam Stern. You very slowly pull the hat off your head, and she gasps.

“I tried to cut it,” you mumble, embarrassed.

“I can see that.” She circles you, assessing the situation, and nods resolutely. “How do you feel about a buzz cut?”

You grimace. “I think my father would murder me.”

“Well,” she runs her fingers through your hair, and you squeeze the armrests to keep yourself from leaping out of your skin. “I think it’s long enough on the top, maybe I could just shave the sides down and even out the top. Undercuts are making a comeback, after all. And if not, well, it’s hair. It’ll grow back.”

Undercut. Yeah, you think you could do that. Paired with the tattoos and piercings, your look will scream “punk-rock” and not “massively depressed.” You nod resolutely. 

 

* * *

 

Don is back from work when you get home. He takes one look at your baseball cap-clad head and crosses his arms. “Well?” he asks.

You look at Rick, who shrugs, before removing it. Don grimaces and flounders for something to say. “Well, at least it looks intentional.”

You look down at your shoes. “I kinda like it,” you mumble. “Maybe I’ll keep it this way for a while.”

Your father splutters. “You look like some punk! Is that really what you want?”

“The kid with face tattoos and piercings doesn’t want to look like a punk, of course not,” you snip.

“I like it, kid, it suits you,” Rick says, smoothly. Your father looks like he wants to start arguing with him, but Rick keeps talking. “Besides, it’s your hair, I say you can do whatever the hell you want with it. A little teenage rebellion never hurt anyone.” He flips his own hair over his shoulder and gives Don a pointed look.

“You and I both know that is a false statement, but I suppose you are correct in that you can do whatever you want with your hair, Eva. At least they did a good job with it.”

It’s the closest to a compliment you’re probably going to get from him. As he and Rick discuss dinner plans, you scurry up the stairs and lock yourself in the bathroom (you’re honestly surprised Don didn’t get some super fancy, hand-carved door but you guess even Mr. Moneybags has his limits). You stare at yourself in the mirror, marveling at your reflection, because for the first time in a while you’re starting to feel like you maybe kind of fit in your skin. You wonder what Don would do if you picked up some dye after school tomorrow, and then decide you don’t care. You won the flipping Great Race, after all. If you can beat the best racers in the galaxy, you can dye your hair whatever color you want. 


	5. What's in a Name

Things return to what you suppose you could call normal. You have the energy to return to school and kind of pay attention in class. Your teachers notice, and at one point, your counselor, a well-meaning but kind of nosy middle-aged man who tries to be "hip to the jive" (his words), calls you into his office and asks if something has changed to help with your performance in school. You just shrug and tell him you're adjusting.

To top it all off, you get several compliments on your hair, which you were not expecting. You did finally pick up some bleach and dye, and now that it's back to its familiar shade of red, you are feeling a lot better about yourself. Maybe it's this boost of confidence and the acceptance of your peers that encourages you to talk to more of your classmates and make some acquaintances, maybe even some friends, though you imagine it'll take a while to get to that point.

At home, you've settled into a rhythm. Rick hasn't...  _moved in_ , per say, but he does spend a lot of time at your dad's place. When you get home from school, he is usually there, cleaning or cooking or digging around in the backyard ("It's called a  _garden_ , Don. People grow  _plants_  in them."). You're still hesitant to be around him, but he hasn't shown any anger or ill-will towards you yet, so maybe he really doesn't blame you for his accident. Which would be dumb, because it was your fault. But maybe Rick Thunderbolt is a better human being than all of you. Maybe he's something more than human.

Besides, you  _miss_  him, dammit. You miss what you had going on Alwas, and you want it back, and screw it if that makes you selfish.

Winter break is soon approaching, which means your teachers have been relentless with the projects and tests lately. You push the front door open and drag your feet as you approach the table, flopping into a chair and groaning loudly. Rick sets a plate of cookies down in front of you.

"What are you, my grandmother?" you ask, plucking one off the plate and nibbling on it. They're oatmeal chocolate chip, and still warm, and you love them.

"Watch it, next time I'll put raisins in them," he warns you, with no real bite. Talking with Rick is easy, at least, easier than talking to any other adult.

You screw up your face in disgust. "You know raisins don't belong in cookies, don't even joke. This is heresy, blasphemy, sacrilege, whatever."

"Yeah, because cookies are  _sacred._ " It drips with sarcasm.

"I'd worship a cookie, or any sweets. At least a cookie never let me down."

"Unless it had raisins in it," he reminds you.

"And that's why I say, sacrilege." You shove another cookie in your mouth for added emphasis.

Rick shakes his head and walks out of the kitchen. You grab a third cookie and follow, curious about what he's doing. He has… paint swatches. And he's holding them up to the wall (the sad, off-white wall that he constantly gives Don shit about). You say nothing, opting to scarf down your treat and disappear into the kitchen for more. When you reemerge, he's on the couch, reading some book with his feet propped up on the coffee table. You settle on the other side and rest your head on the arm. Today's history test drained you and also probably drop-kicked your grade down a letter (not your fault all the dates and wars run together in your head).

"What do you want to be called?" Rick asks you.

You pick your head up and blink at him. He is still staring at his book. "What do you mean?"

"Eva or Molly?"

You pause to think. Finally, you say, "I don't know."

"Do you not know, or do you just not want to think about it yet?" There are a lot of things you can't bring yourself to think about yet.

"No, I…" you huff as you search for the words you're looking for, "I just don't know. I feel like everyone expects me to be Eva, and in some ways, I  _want_  to be Eva."

"But?"

"It's like, I guess… ugh," you growl. Words are hard, and so are hard-hitting questions like the ones Rick seems to enjoy asking. "Like, so Eva was happy, right? She had her mom and her dad and everything was great until  _boom_ , it wasn't great anymore, and everything went to shit because her mom died and her father abandoned her. So she sat around for ten years in a shitty boarding school, waiting for him to rescue her but he never came. And after all this waiting around, she finally decides to do something about it, so she runs away and finds her dad herself, but when she does, he doesn't recognize her, so she has a choice. She can either tell him who she really is, and maybe he's ecstatic that she's back, or maybe he isn't, but either way it's already awkward. Or she can lie and become someone else with the hope that he eventually figures it out, or he comes to love this new person as a daughter, and then maybe it doesn't matter if she's Eva or not, because she gets her father back in the end anyway even if he doesn't know who she really is.

"So then Molly is born, and she fights to get to Alwas, and she fights to be the pilot for the Earth team, and she fights to win these races and win some  _respect_  from her asshole father who has no idea who she really is." You're pacing the length of the living room, Rick, having finally put his book down, watching you carefully from the couch. "But she also makes friends and builds her own family and makes a place for herself in the world, she's not just sitting idle and waiting for someone else to change everything for her. Molly has to claw her way up from the bottom and she has to fight for everything she has and everything she wants to have, and when it's all said and done, when she finally wins the race and gets her father back but loses everything else, she's just supposed to go back to being Eva, like it never happened? Like Molly never existed, like she never mattered?"

You stop, staring down at your stocking-clad feet and balling your fists. "Molly accomplished so much, she did something for herself and she fought hard for it, but in the end she didn't really succeed, and now I feel like everyone just wants me to forget Molly. But I can't just forget Molly. I can't just forget Eva, either. They're both me, and going by one name feels like I'm leaving the other behind, like I'm closing the door on that part of my life. It's like, I have to choose between the little kid who lost everything and the angry teenager who fought to get it back. How can you choose between that? How do you decide?"

"But you can't let people decide for you," Rick mumbles.

You stomp your foot. " _Exactly!_  I hate it every time Dad calls me Eva, because it feels like he's trying to forget the past ten years ever happened, and he never left me behind and everything is fine. And maybe that's just his guilt. He's angry at himself for what he did and he can't bring himself to face it yet, so it's better to just shove it all down in the deep-dark where you don't have to confront it, not yet, and you can pretend you aren't some broken, hollow shell of yourself." And maybe you're projecting a little now. You stop to catch your breath, and when you continue, your voice is soft, hesitant. "I wish it could be that easy. Sometimes I wish I could forget Molly, and forget everything she went through. But I know if I could go back and do it all again, I would. In a heartbeat. Maybe I'd change some things, but not Molly." You laugh. "God, I must sound crazy, like Jekyll and Hyde. Maybe I need more help than I thought."

Rick shifts, leaning forward and resting his chin on his hands. "No, that makes sense. Doesn't answer my question, but I guess I should have known it would be more complicated, since nothing about this situation is uncomplicated. Have you told Don any of this?"

You return to the sofa and drop down next to Rick with a sigh. "Do you think I've told Don? It's too complicated and I don't think he would understand. Plus, there's the whole, you know," you gesture vaguely, and Rick just raises an eyebrow at you. You huff. "Like, Eva is the name my parents gave me. It's the name my  _mom_  gave me. And now that she's gone, well…" you trail off and shift uncomfortably in your seat. That's a whole other can of worms you don't want to open right now."It's kind of like, a connection to her I guess. Like, names are the first gifts you're given, right? You pop out and your parents give you a name, and that's who you are, and some people change those names for any number of reasons, but I feel like if I just abandoned Eva altogether, I would be throwing that away. I would be throwing one of the last connections I have to her away. Or something," you add hastily, because Rick is just kind of looking at you and since you can't see his eyes, you aren't quite sure if his expression is supposed to be judgmental or not.

"It sounds like you've thought about this," is all he says. You aren't really sure what that means, so you just shrug.

"I guess so, yeah. I mean, it's still a mess. I wish it was easy. I wish my life could be easy, but someone has to struggle so others can feel fortunate." Silence falls between you, but it doesn't feel as strained as it has since the race. "Maybe you can call me Molly. I don't think Don will call me Molly and I think he'd have a crisis if I asked him to. But if I don't like it, I'll tell you, and you can call me Eva instead. Or maybe I'll come up with a new name, and start over again, and make a new self that never got left behind and didn't have to fight for everything she has. Someone normal. Maybe Norma, although I don't think I'm much of a Norma."

That draws a laugh out of your mentor, and you smile a little. "Alright, Molly, but you gotta let me know if you don't like it," he says firmly.

You nod, and he gets up and stretches. "I should probably head on home. Can't let Don think I'm a freeloader."

You roll your eyes. "It's not like you don't do anything around here."

He ruffles your hair. "Yeah, well, you know how he is." Boy, do you.

You walk with him to the door, and before he leaves, you hesitantly wrap your arms around his middle and bury your face in his side. You feel him stiffen before a hand settles between your shoulder blades. "Thanks, Rick," you mumble.

"No problem, Molly." He gives you a crooked grin and a salute before you let him pull his jacket on and slip out the door. As you watch him drive away in his truck, you feel oddly at peace, not because you don't think you should, but because it's the first time in a long time you have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it took me a long time to write this because I wasn't happy with it until I merged two chapters together and moved some stuff around... and somehow it took me like a week and a half to figure that one out lol. Anyway, this will probably be the last update for a while, since I'm going back to school (senior year woot woot) and I have. A very full course load. As I prepare for my recital and internship. Thanks to everyone who's been reading, and special shout-out to Rose (I think she's adangerintime on here?) for editing all of this <3


	6. All I Want for Christmas is a Functional Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BOOM BABEY I'M BACK! It has been exactly a year since I updated. Whoops.  
> Anyway. I started writing this chapter back in December, so it's a holiday celebration chapter! I know it's almost September! But I feel terrible about how long it's taken me to update that I'm not okay with waiting until the holidays finally roll around again! More notes at the end! That's a lot of exclamation points!

     You make it to winter break. Around this time at Stern, your classmates would disappear into their parents' vehicles, leaving you waiting on the front steps of the boarding school for a father who would never show. By the time you were eight, you'd realized he wouldn't be coming. But you always waited on the off chance he would.  
     So this is the first time in about 10 years that you're with what's left of your family for any holiday (you remembered belatedly that Thanksgiving is a thing, but when you mentioned it to Rick, he just snorted and made some comment about having no desire to celebrate cultural genocide. You should have figured that Rick would be opposed to Thanksgiving on principle). You're kind of nervous, but also excited. Your memories of Christmas are limited to your mother helping you put the star on the top of the tree, and your father dancing around the house in a Santa hat. You wonder what it would take to get Rick in a Santa hat.  
     The first day of your break, you walk down to the living room, that sad, off-white space that looks so sterile and clinical that it would look more at home in a hospital, and you hate it, because hospitals are never good. You cross your arms with a huff. You know Rick is going to be here soon (because he always shows up, eventually); maybe if you ask really nicely he'll take you out to get some decorations. And also make you breakfast.  
     You had long given up on the idea of Rick making you breakfast by the time he arrives, and you're about to shove  _another_  Pop Tart in your mouth when he strolls into the kitchen like he owns the place (he might as well) and gives you a look through his sunglasses that oozes disapproval. "What are you eating." It's not a question.  
     Your eyes flick to the box still sitting open on the counter. "It's got strawberries in it."  
     "That's hardly a healthy breakfast."  
     This is the new thing you've been fighting over, whether or not things are "healthy breakfasts," and how important is it,  _really_ , if the first thing in your body is more sugar than anything else. "Fight me," you fire back, because he's  _right_ , but you don't  _care_. You wanted a Pop Tart, dammit.  
     "I have better things to do," he replies.  
     "Oh yeah?" you challenge.  
     "You want a real breakfast or not?"  
     Well, you aren't going to argue with that one. Though, glancing at the clock, it's closer to lunch than not. You tell him as much. "Brunch, then," he amends.  
     He makes the two of you burritos with eggs, ham, cheese, and bell peppers, and while you complain about the presence of vegetables, you stop as soon as he sets the plate in front of you, and despite gorging yourself on pastries with fake strawberry filling, you scarf down everything. You can't tell if he's watching you behind those dumb sunglasses until he shakes his head in disbelief when you push your plate away.  
     "I'm a growing girl," you stick your tongue out at him.  
     "Up or out?" he teases, but the dirty look you throw him makes him laugh and apologize.  
     When he finishes his own food, you finally broach the topic of going shopping. "We don't have any Christmas decorations," you say.  
     "That does appear to be the case," he agrees.  
     "I want to go get some."  
     He leans back in his chair and props his feet on the table. "Like what?"  
     You roll your eyes. "I don't know, Christmas-y decorations? Like, don't people usually get trees and shit?"  
     "Decorating your house with shit would be an odd choice."  
     "You know what I mean," you growl, and he chuckles. "Don is boring and won't do it, and I haven't had a proper Christmas in 10 years."  
     That sobers him up, and he just nods. "Alright, we can go get a tree. But I have a request."  
     "What's that?"  
     "Don comes with."

     And that's how you find yourself pouting in the back of Rick's pick-up with Don and Rick arguing in the front seat and a tree in the bed. It took way longer than it should have, wandering around the tree farm, to find one that was good enough for Don's impractical standards, and by the time you finally did, you were ready to go home.  
     "It's so cold," Don complains.  
     "It's 50 degrees," Rick counters.  
     Don glares at him. "It's 48!"  
     "So are you," you grumble. "Old fart."  
     "I am  _not_  old!" Don turns on you, and then Rick when the other man fails to hold back his laughter. "She gets this from you!"  
     "I think she was already like this before I came into the picture, Don. Besides, if I remember correctly, you've got quite a propensity for sass, yourself."  
     Your father crosses his arms and grumbles to himself while Rick shakes his head. "What's that look for?" Don demands.  
     "Fuckin' Weis."  
     You lean forward and rest your elbows on the console. "But you like me."  
     "I like  _both_  of you, however the hell  _that_  came to happen." After a beat of silence, Rick adds, "Or maybe I just realized that neither of you can take care of yourselves and took it upon myself to do it for you."  
     "Surely we would perish without your goodwill," Don grumbles, and you can hear the eye rolling in his tone.  
     "What did I tell you? She comes by it honestly."

     After setting up the tree, you and Rick follow Don up to the attic, where he claims the old decorations are stored. You're filled with apprehension; you've never been in the attic before, but judging by the way Don is nervously fiddling with the key, you're certain there's a lot to unpack in there, physically and emotionally. You aren't sure that you're ready for that, yet.  
     "Alright, I'm pretty sure they're to the left," Don mutters, after pushing the trap door open ("It's not a trap door," he corrects you when you call it that, but he doesn't give you anything  _else_  to call it so that's what it is.) He and Rick walk in that direction, but you stop and look around at your surroundings. A trophy catches your eye, so after making sure that you aren't being watched, you sneak over to investigate.  
     There's a layer of dust on everything, and it makes you sneeze violently when you pull the sheet thrown hurriedly over the collection of photographs and awards. You knew they'd be your mother's, so at this point you're really just asking for the emotional sucker-punch this is sure to get you, but your curiosity is overwhelming. You throw another nervous glance over your shoulder to make sure you're still relatively alone and start digging through the memorabilia, pausing when you find a picture of your mother in her racing helmet and holding an infant, most likely you, judging by the shock of dark brown hair and big brown eyes that look startled over the kiss pressed against a round cheek. You haven't seen any baby pictures of yourself. You carefully tuck the picture into the back pocket of your jeans and keep digging.  
     "Eva?" you father's nervous voice interrupts your search, and you jerk back quickly, nearly crashing into a stack of boxes and knocking them over. You scramble to catch them before they can tumble to the floor and sigh in relief.  
     "I'm coming!" you call. You replace the sheet and scurry over before he catches you going through things you probably aren't supposed to be going through. He and Rick are picking up some boxes with "X-MAS" written in thick black marker on the side.  
     "Can you grab that box?" Don points to it with his toe. "It might be kind of heavy, so be careful."  
     "Yeah, yeah, I got it." It is a little heavier than you expected, but not impossible, so you follow them back down to the living room.

     Going through all the decorations is more of a pain in the ass than a painful walk down memory lane. The lights and strands of tinsel are all tangled up in each other, and you debate just buying new ones until Rick plugs all the lights in to find out if they all still work and sure enough, they do. So after a couple hours filled with arguing and cursing, you finally untangle the lights and get them on the tree.  
     You hold up the tinsel. "Are we going to untangle this?"  
     "No." Don and Rick's unanimous and synchronized response makes them glare at each other, but you sigh in relief. You really didn't want to go through everything you just did again.  
     The ornaments are a little different. There are some homemade ones scattered throughout the box, and when you pull them out, your father takes each one and stares at them, nostalgia and hurt warring in his eyes until he forces himself to put them down. You want to know the stories behind them, but you're too afraid to dredge up uncomfortable memories so you don't. Until you find something that looks like a cat threw up and someone covered it in pink glitter.  
     "What the heck is this?" you hold it up for your father to examine.  
     He smiles fondly, "You made that. You were, I don't know, three?"  
     "What is it supposed to be?"  
     "A rabbit, I believe."  
     You squint at it. "Had I ever seen a rabbit?"  
     That makes Don laugh. "Yes! You loved rabbits. That Christmas, you begged for one as a pet. Your mother—" he swallows, then pushes on, "Your mother and I finally managed to talk you out of it, but we did get you a stuffed one, instead."  
     "A pink one," you nod. "I remember it. Not getting it, but having it. I wonder where it went."  
     "Is that where you drew your inspiration from when you painted the  _Arrow_?" Rick asks. A smile is tugging at the corner of his mouth.  
     You laugh. "Yeah, I guess so. Some things don't change, apparently." You look at the ornament in your hand. "This thing is still hideous, though. Do you want to keep it?"  
     "Not really," Don mutters.  
     "I think you should," Rick reaches out for it, and hangs it on a branch. "As a memory of that one time you two had a nice conversation that didn't end in someone yelling."  
     "We've had plenty of conversations that didn't end in yelling!" Don, well,  _yells_.  
     Rick just raises an eyebrow, and you snort. "Even if it's true, you don't have to say it," you protest. "Now you've just gone and ruined it."  
     "How about I make it up to you and make you dinner?"  
     "Like you weren't going to do that anyway," you roll your eyes.  
     Rick does finally grin. "You got me, Mouse."

* * *

     The next morning, you roll out of bed and stalk to the bathroom. Your hair is an absolute mess; even if it's getting rather shaggy, your hair is still short enough to stand up in strange formations while you sleep. You manage to coax it into something less frightening and contemplate what you'll eat for breakfast while you pad over to the staircase. The sound of Rick and Don arguing makes you stop in your tracks.  
     "What am I  _supposed_  to get her?" Don hisses. They must be trying to keep their voices down so they don't wake you up (even if the nightmares have mostly stopped, you're still a very light sleeper).  
     "Not something that costs half a year's salary that she won't even use," Rick snaps. "How do you think she's going to react to that? She's going to see it as an attempt to 'buy' her affection, and you know it."  
     They're arguing about you, then. You carefully position yourself so that you can see them where they're standing in the kitchen. Your father appears to be cooking for once; maybe he started before Rick got here.  
     "That doesn't answer my original question!"  
     Rick pulls his sunglasses off and rubs at his eyes. You feel your own widen, and try to crane your neck in an attempt to see Rick's face, but his back is still stubbornly towards you when he replaces the shades. You feel your features slip into a pout.  
     "Have you asked her?" Rick deadpans. Don shifts nervously, and Rick swears. "You are _impossible_."  
     "What am I supposed to do, just, just, ask her?" your father splutters. Rick must give him a look, because Don drags his hands down his face.  
     "She's a kid, Don, just talk to her. She's not gonna grow a second head and spit fire at you or whatever the hell you're afraid of happening."  
     "But she's…" you can't hear what Don mumbles, and you huff.  
     Rick shifts his weight and pops his hip. You recognize that stance, that's the "Rick Thunderbolt is about to school someone" stance.  
     "And if you want my opinion, she has every right to be. You did abandon her. And you can't change that."  
     "Gee, thanks, very inspirational, Rick."  
     "You  _can_ , however, try to make up for lost time  _now_. Yeah, she's angry and closed off. That's most teenagers on a  _good_  day. Molly's a good kid, Don, but she's dealing with a lot of hurt, some of which  _you_  caused. All you can do is let her know that you want to try to make things better, make an effort to be there for her, and if she tells you to back off, you listen."  
     Don crosses his arms and sighs. After a moment of silence, he says, "I suppose you would know. She likes you."  
     "Because I've put in the effort to get to know her. But I've hurt her too. How do you think I felt when she blew up at me?"  
     Ah, yes,  _that_  happened. You hoped he'd forgotten, but you suppose that's not the kind of thing people really forget.  
     "And she blamed  _herself_ , Don. She thinks it's her fault that I left. How do you think that made me feel? So yeah, I can kind of relate to what you're dealing with, but ignoring the problem isn't going to make it go away. And maybe you can't fix this, and maybe she doesn't want anything to do with you, but at least you can say you  _tried_."  
     You quietly creep away from the staircase and slip back into your room.

     The soft knock on your door breaks you out of your thoughts, and you glance at the clock on your bedside table. A couple of hours have passed already, meaning you were up here a lot longer than you meant to be. "It's open," you call, returning your focus to the sketchbook in your lap.  
     "So you are awake," your father says, pushing the door open. "Aren't you hungry?"  
     You shrug. "Not really."  
     "Are you okay?" he asks.  
     "Not really."  
     You feel him settle on the edge of your bed. "Did you want to talk about it?"  
     "Not really."  
     He sighs. "Eva, I can't help you if you don't tell me what's wrong."  
     You tap your pencil against your bottom lip and look down at the messy outline of a new rocket seat before you ask, "How much is half a year's salary?"  
     Don is quiet for a moment, before asking, "You heard that, then?" When you nod, he sighs again. "Rick has the tendency to exaggerate, but he ... had some good points. What would you like for Christmas?"  
     "Nothing you can get me," you grumble.  
     "Not if you're going to be dramatic about it."  
     You bristle. "I'm not  _dramatic_."  
     "Then what would you like for Christmas?"  
     You set the sketchbook aside and draw your knees up to your chest. You wrap your arms around your legs and rest your chin on your knees and sigh. "I want to be a family again. Ever since we got back, it feels like we're just stepping on eggshells around each other. I don't feel like I can talk to you about anything, but you're always working anyway so I don't even have time to. And when we do talk, I feel like you don't really listen to me, so then I get frustrated, and then you get frustrated, and we start yelling at each other, and then I don't want to talk to you again because I don't want to argue with you."  
     Don doesn't say anything, and you expect him to get angry and storm out of the room, but he surprises you by taking a deep breath and saying, "You're right. I've been… avoiding you. I'm just so worried that I can't ever make things right between us that I don't even know where to begin." He rests his head in his hands and groans. "Your mother would know what to do. She always knew what to do, and I just followed after her blindly. She should be here, not me." He looks at you then, and he looks so much older than he really is. "But she's not here," he continues. "And I'm your father, and I need to do better." With that, he stands and walks out of your room with the stride of a race manager, and not the disheveled, sad little man he is.

     You're helping Rick clean up from lunch when your father finally emerges from his office. He stands in the middle of the kitchen, clasps his hands behind his back, and announces, "I've taken the rest of this week off so we can spend time together."  
     You drop the knife you were drying, and then leap back so it doesn't wind up in your foot. It clatters harmlessly to the tiles. "You did  _what_?"  
     "You feelin' okay, Don?" Rick asks, looking the man up and down. "I can't think of the last time you took time off from work."  
     "Yes, well," he clears his throat and shifts uncomfortably. "It is the holidays. I figured everyone could use the time off to be with their families."  
     "Everyone being?" Rick prompts. Don tugs nervously at the collar of his shirt, and Rick whistles through his teeth. "You gave everyone at Wei Race the holidays off. Did anyone ask to verify your identity?"  
     "Don Wei, infamous hardass, giving all his employees time off? You must be ill," you gibe.  
     He flaps his jaw before spluttering, "I may be a hardass, but I'm not  _heartless_!"  
     "There he is," Rick drawls. "Welcome back, Don."  
     Your father grumbles and stomps over to the coffee pot to pour himself a cup. You snort when it occurs to you that maybe _that's_  why he's so bitter.  
     "So, what are you gonna do with your time off?" Rick asks.  
     "Ah, yes, well, I thought maybe Molly would like to decide?"  
     You set the plate Rick just handed you down so you don't drop it. "Is this about this morning?" you demand.  
     Don looks offended by your outburst. "You said you wanted to be a family again. Isn't this what families do?"  
     "Well I wouldn't know, _Don_ , I've never had one!" you snarl.  
     "Enough," Rick warns you.  
     "But—!"  
     "I said  _enough_." Rick's voice takes on a sharp, forceful edge that makes you flinch despite yourself. He takes a deep breath and rubs the bridge of his nose before mumbling an apology and adding, "He's offering you an olive branch, kid. I'd take it, if I were you."  
You glare at your father, who is looking between you and Rick almost  _hopefully,_  and you feel the fight bleed out of you. "Fine," you grumble. "Sorry I snapped at you."  
     He looks relieved. He sits and drinks his coffee while you and Rick finish washing the dishes. As you put the last few away, you say, "We should make Christmas cookies."  
     "We might have to go shopping since I don't think there's a lot of baking supplies here, but we can do that," Don replies.  
     You nod. "Then it's settled. I want to make cookies."

     A trip to the grocery store that winds up being way longer than it should have because your father and Rick kept arguing over brands while you sat in the basket of the cart and sighed a whole lot in irritation later, the three of you begin to make cookies. The first batch of sugar cookies goes smoothly, and while you're mixing the next batch while those cook, you glance up at your father, who is rolling the dough into little balls and putting them on a baking sheet, and your mischievous streak flares.  
     "Want any help with that?" you ask sweetly.  
     "Oh, sure, thank you, Eva."  
     You grab a handful of dough and start rolling it, but instead of setting it on the pan, you throw it at your father's chest. It hits the front of his apron (that you and Rick definitely gave him shit for wearing) and then falls to the floor, landing with a satisfying  _splat_.  
     Don's head snaps up and he glares at you. "What was that for?"  
     Instead of answering, you throw another one at him. This one hits his shoulder.  
     "Why you little—" he throws the dough he was rolling at you, and you flinch and screech. It bounces off your forearm and joins the others on the floor.  
     "Will you two quit wasting all that?" Rick asks.  
     You and your father look at each other, and then a smirk settles on Don's face as he snatches some dough off the cookie sheet and hurls it at Rick. It narrowly misses him and hits the wall instead.  
     "Alright, you asked for it," Rick growls, picking the dough off the floor. You squeal with laughter and duck behind the counter before he can throw it.  
     "Don't dish what you can't take, Molly!" Rick calls, his voice above you. You look up from where you're crouched on the floor, and realize Rick is holding a measuring cup over your head before he upends its contents on you. You cough and splutter as the flour gets in your nose and mouth.  
     You leap to your feet. "This is war!" you cry. You grab the bag of sugar off the counter and run at Rick, fully intending to pour the whole thing out on him. Just then, the oven beeps.  
     "Okay, enough, let me get the cookies out," Don says. He's laughing and clutching at his sides.  
     "We've probably wasted enough food, too," Rick adds, pulling the sugar from between your fingers and holding it up over his head.  
     You jump a couple of times in an effort to reach it, but he's too tall and you give up with a grunt. "I'll have my vengeance," you threaten, and then wrap your arms around him and wipe your flour-covered face all over his black shirt.  
     "Dammit, kid, I don't have another clean shirt here," he huffs.  
     You grin up at him. "Don't dish what you can't take!"  
     He grumbles, but ruffles your hair playfully before pulling away as Don places the just-baked cookies on a cooling rack.  
     "Can I try one?" you ask. You skip over towards the oven and snatch up a cookie. You yelp at how hot it is, but stuff it your mouth.  
     Don swats at your hands as you reach for another one. "You're going to burn yourself!" he snaps.  
     "How'd they turn out, Molly?" Rick asks.  
     "Needs sprinkles or icing," you say.  
     "Let's finish the rest of the cookies while we wait for them to cool, then we can make icing," Rick suggests.  
     Which is exactly what you do. You insisted on making  _all_  the cookies, and by the time you're done, there isn't a surface in the kitchen that isn't covered in baked goods. As the three of you stand back and survey your handiwork, Don scratches his chin and mumbles, "We may have gotten a little carried away."  
     "Isn't that just the  _Wei_  you operate?" Rick nudges you, and you can't help but snort a laugh. Don only groans. "Besides," Rick adds. "It's the holidays. A little extra sugar won't kill anyone. What do you think, Mouse?"  
     You hum thoughtfully before replying, "I think that I don't want to decorate all of these right now."  
     "I second that," Don says. "I think I've done enough baking today."  
     "We can do it tomorrow, then," you suggest.  
     "Anything else you want to do tomorrow?" Rick asks.  
     You grin at him. "What would I have to do to convince you to put on a Santa hat?"  
     He sighs heavily, "Maybe if you ask really nicely, I'll wear one on Christmas day."  
     "It can be your present to me."  
     "Maybe."

* * *

     Rick does wear a Santa hat on Christmas day, kicking down your door with a bag thrown over his shoulder and "ho, ho, ho-ing" so loudly you fall out of bed. You rub the sleep from your eyes and glare at him, but he only grins and says, "Up and at 'em, Little Mouse, or no presents for you."  
     After that, you tear down the stairs. You father is sitting at the table, drinking coffee and wearing an absolutely hideous sweater with blinking lights on it. When you give him a funny look, he says, "There's one for you too, if you want it," and points to a folded up bundle of yarn at your usual spot at the table. You unfold it to reveal a little kitten playing with a ball of yarn between the words "Meow-y Christmas."  
     "Oh, this is terrible," you groan.  
     "Come on, Molly, put it on, embrace the holiday cheer," Rick calls from the living room. "I fucking  _jingle_ , for God's sake."  
     You peer around the doorway, and sure enough, Rick's sweater is host to a small horde of elves, each with a little bell attached to their stocking caps. Rick pulls the garment out away from his body and gives it a shake to demonstrate.  
     "Horrendous," you remark. "I love it."  
     Don appears at your elbow. "Go get dressed, then we can eat breakfast and open gifts."  
     "I told you I didn't want anything," you glare at him.  
     "It's just a couple of small things, and Rick… provided assistance."  
     Rick scoffs. "You could say that."  
     You look between the two of them suspiciously, but finally concede and disappear back up the stairs to change.  
     After breakfast is cleaned up, you all gather around the tree. Don and Rick argue over which gift you should open first, and finally you just grab a random one from the pile and tear the paper off.  
     "That one's lame," Rick's tone sounds almost like whining, but you know better than to believe Rick Thunderbolt  _whines_.  
     Don clicks his tongue in annoyance. "It is not."  
     You pull the lid off the box to reveal clothing. "I mean, I need clothes, right?" There are a couple pairs of pants and some shirts, including one with a snarling dog and the words  _Talk shit, get bit_. "I'm going to guess Rick picked this one out?"  
     He only offers you a thumbs up, and Don sighs. "Just don't wear it to school, okay?"  
     "It's too amazing to wear to school, the teachers would shit themselves."  
     Your father only shakes his head and grumbles under his breath.  
     The next present you open is a book with different styles of star racers. You flip through it briefly, admiring the pages that include in-depth information on engines, thrusters, and other parts.  
     "Wasn't sure if you would still be interested in racing," Don mumbles and rubs the back of his neck.  
     "No, it's great, I love it," you grin at him, and he visibly relaxes. "I'd love to start tinkering again."  
     "Then open this one next," Rick says, pushing another gift towards you. It's heavier than you expected, and you frown at both of them before carefully peeling the paper off to reveal a shiny new toolbox. You wordlessly open it and examine the tools inside.  
     Don shifts in his seat. "What do you think?"  
     "I don't know what to say. Thanks, I guess?"  
    "Do you not like it?"  
     You shake your head. "No, it's perfect, I love it. I just, it's a lot. Thank you." To everyone's surprise, including yourself, you hug him.  
     Your father's arms tighten around you, and you hear him sigh. "It's so good to have you back, Eva."  
     "It's good to be back," you whisper. And you mean it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this chapter felt rushed, it's probably because... it was. This year has been a heck of a ride, between travel, finishing up college, and not-great things happening in my personal life. Also lost my beta reader, so if you notice anything is like. Wildly misspelled or just sounds really awkward, feel free to drop me a message. I might also check back in after a day or two has passed, since that's usually when I notice any errors. But this is the longest chapter I've posted for this fic so far! Also trying out new formatting stuff, so if anyone thinks it makes it harder to read, let me know?
> 
> Anyway! Looking ahead, not sure when the next update will be. I've got a bunch of stuff written up, and I'm super excited to share it with all of you! (The return of our favorite mechanics! The introduction of the Wilde family [or what's left of it]! Avatar shenanigans!) But I have to write the stuff to connect all together first, which is... difficult, when one is as unmotivated as I am. So all I can really say is, I'm not planning on abandoning this, it might just not be updated super regularly. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and for all the comments and kudos you've given me! I'm so glad so many people have been enjoying this!


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